


The Same Smile

by anxiousgoat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU Prisoner of Azkaban, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 03:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19715605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anxiousgoat/pseuds/anxiousgoat
Summary: Harry Potter never worked out the location of the Chamber of Secrets which means that Tom Riddle, after fifty years of living as a small book, finally has free rein to do everything he ever wanted and more.





	The Same Smile

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my dear friend Kassi, who was so enthusiastic about this idea that it made me want to write it down!

Harry Potter burst furiously from his house. He didn’t even bother to close the door but started dragging his trunk along the road at a remarkable speed considering his skinniness and the fact that he was also carrying a large owl cage under his arm. Still, it took only a few strides before Tom had caught him up. He grasped the boy’s arm firmly and Disapparated.

*

Tom Riddle knew himself to be an honest man and he admitted that there had been times when he’d truly doubted he would ever manage to create a new body for himself. That he had succeeded in doing so was a testament to his own courage, tenacity and skill, not to mention his finely honed ability to charm those whom he needed.

Strange to think that it was a mere ten weeks since he had pressed his fingers to little Ginny’s neck to confirm that she was dead. Ten weeks since he had left the Chamber of Secrets for the last time. He would, of course, return to Hogwarts to purge the school of mudbloods, but now it would not be necessary to do so in secret. Ten weeks since he had walked from the bathroom, ignoring the ghost that wailed and screamed at him, and Disapparated from just outside the school’s grounds.

And that had only been the beginning. It had been a busy ten weeks, particularly considering that he’d spent the previous five decades as a consciousness inside a diary. Albania had been his destination from the start, for he had made Ginny research his older self’s activities rigorously before he killed her, and she had discovered the rumours that his spirit was hiding there. The moment he’d heard that he had known it was true, for it was also where Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem had last been seen. Where else could be so safe after his body had been destroyed by the Potter boy?

Wormtail had arrived in the forest mere days after Tom had discovered the pathetic spirit of his older self inhabiting the body of a snake (which had at least made communicating simple). It seemed that Pettigrew had, in his rat form, been hiding with a prominent wizarding family. He had heard what had happened to his owner’s sister and realised that it must have been Lord Voldemort’s doing. Knowing it was only a matter of time before his old master rose again, he had rushed to find and aid him – or so he claimed, but in many ways a frightened servant was easier to control than a loyal one, so Tom didn’t much care. 

The spirit of Lord Voldemort had been so furious at Wormtail’s appearance in the forest that he’d only had time to hiss “kill him!” in Parseltongue before the body of the snake he was inhabiting died and he’d had to go and find another. Tom had rolled his eyes slightly at this. Perhaps it was the sort of thing Rabastan had meant when he’d muttered “drama queen” that time. Tom smiled slightly, remembering Rabastan’s subsequent screams.

It was a good thing his older self hadn’t been able to wield a wand, for the wretched Wormtail had proved surprisingly useful. He had reported, for example, that the wizarding world was in total disarray after the disappearance of Ginny Weasley. No-one had found her body; nobody knew who had taken her or why. Tom was certain that Dumbledore must have some idea, but since his old headmaster knew nothing of his Horcruxes he would be puzzled as to what had actually happened. Hogwarts had been closed. Almost the entire Ministry had descended on the castle to search for the Chamber, but with no result. 

Naturally.

Tom had extracted most of this information from Wormtail before his older self had returned in the body of a large snake, still spitting with rage. He had pointed out, coolly and calmly, that the unpleasant little man had not intended his information about the Potters to lead to the downfall of Lord Voldemort and that having a servant around to help with the lengthy and complicated rituals they planned to perform would be extremely useful. Lord Voldemort had finally agreed, though Tom thought he could detect a certain sulkiness in the snake’s hissing.

Thus it was that they had embarked upon the greatest of all their endeavours: returning Lord Voldemort to his own body.

They had completed, not without trouble, the spells and rituals that culminated in the conjuring of a rudimentary body which would enable Lord Voldemort to travel with relative ease – and to use a wand. Watching the feeble creature Crucioing Wormtail then cackling with delight had brought a fond smile to Tom’s face. And a week ago the three of them had taken up residence in the empty, mouldering house which had once been Tom’s father’s. Now that worthless Muggle’s bones would be used to bring about his son’s ascent to power. 

Once they’d settled in the house and his older self was comfortable, Tom had begun brewing the potion – the potion that now needed only three more ingredients before it could be used to restore Lord Voldemort to his own body. His father’s bones were readily available in the graveyard at the bottom of the hill. A servant’s flesh – well, that was the final argument that had persuaded his older self not to kill Wormtail. 

And the blood of an enemy.

This was why they had returned to England instead of remaining in the safety of that deep Albanian forest. Lord Voldemort would accept no other blood to flow through his own precious veins than that of Harry Potter, and once Tom understood his reasoning he had agreed. Wormtail, naturally, had whined and complained, but Lord Voldemort had promised him a new hand, one that would be superior to any other. That had shut the little fool up.

Having completed the potion, Tom had set out to Little Whinging and begun to watch, disguised by a powerful Disillusionment Charm. There was no way to take the boy from his own home; Tom would simply watch and take any opportunity that arose. He’d have to Apparate the boy away, alerting the Ministry via the Trace, but they would have to risk that.

As it happened, events had played into Tom’s hands far more perfectly than he could have imagined. After days of watching he’d begun to wonder whether the boy ever left his relatives’ house. But now, seated on the low wall surrounding the lawn of the opposite house and staring vacantly at the sky, he heard raised voices and jumped up, wand raised, ready for action.

The Muggles’ dining room was visible through the uncurtained window and yes, a quarrel was taking place. Potter was on his feet, and – what the hell? The large woman was expanding – inflating! Tom stared. There was more yelling – the woman was rising towards the ceiling – Potter fled the room. Tom waited. Minutes later, Harry Potter burst from the house and Tom had him.

Apparating into the graveyard, triumph pounded through him. This was perfect. Perfect! Harry Potter had attacked a relative and then fled the house – now the Apparition might not even cause suspicion! The Ministry would think the boy had learned it illegally and was using it to help in his flight. Or they might not even notice, with the furore caused by the relative’s inflation and the furious family. Yes, either way he would have a considerable head start.

Potter staggered as they appeared in the graveyard, the owl cage clattering to the ground. Before he could recover himself, Tom pointed his wand at him and said “Imperio”. Immediately, the boy stood quietly, wand dangling in his hand. Tom removed it from his grasp and glanced up towards the house on the hill. Wormtail would have received his signal and be on his way by now. He made Potter go and stand against his father’s headstone.

“Incarcerous,” he said quietly, and ropes shot from his wand, binding the boy from head to foot.

All was ready.

The minutes passed slowly. Tom was a patient man, but it was hard to wait even a moment now that they were so close to success. After a while he decided to remove the Imperius Curse. A little conversation with the boy might be entertaining. But even as he lifted his wand a tiny sound reached him. He turned, pointing the wand in the direction of the sound instead – it was sure to be Wormtail, but he must be cautious. 

Several more minutes passed, more sounds came, and he did not move. Eventually a short figure hove into sight. Tom snorted slightly, lowered his wand, and seated himself on a convenient stone. It was of course Wormtail (what a charmingly apt name; he delighted in using it). The man was moving clumsily, clasping the precious, fragile body of his master to his chest and floating the cauldron in front of him.

“Is all well?” came the clear voice of Lord Voldemort from the bundle in Wormtail’s arms.

“It is,” replied Tom as Wormtail set the bundle down beside him with care. He caressed the top of its head very gently with his fingers. Then they sat, watching silently as Wormtail bustled around. Tom could tell that the man was afraid, that he hated and loathed what he had been ordered to do, that he very nearly regretted returning to his old master. It did not matter.

As the miserable Wormtail lit a fire beneath the cauldron of potion, which was now at the foot of Tom’s father’s grave, Tom rose and approached Potter. He stuffed a wad of material into the boy’s mouth so that he couldn’t make a noise, then lifted the Imperius Curse. He wanted Potter to know what was happening before he died.

The potion heated quickly. In only a few minutes it was bubbling and sending out sparks. It was time.

“Now!” said his older self, in perfect harmony with Tom’s thoughts. He gestured at Wormtail, who hurried towards the little bundle. As he unwrapped it and carried Lord Voldemort’s temporary body towards the cauldron, Tom spared Harry Potter a brief glance. He was staring at Tom’s older self, eyes bulging, straining hopelessly against his bonds.

There was a splash and the small body hit the bottom of the cauldron. Tom felt his heart beat a little faster. He raised his wand, speaking clearly and calmly into the night. The surface of the grave, between boy and cauldron, cracked.

“Bone of the father,” he said, “Unknowingly given, you will restore your son.”

Fine dust streamed from the crack and into the cauldron. The potion instantly became a bright sparkling blue. Tom turned to Wormtail, who whimpered and dragged a dagger from inside his robes.

“Flesh of the servant,” intoned Tom, his eyes not leaving Wormtail, who was now sobbing. The dagger swung. “Willingly given. You will revive your master.”

He barely noticed the scream that sliced through the night. The hand turned the potion a dazzling red. Tom’s heart thumped as he stepped in front of Harry Potter. The was the final step. In just moments – he bent over the boy, their faces close together. Potter’s was contorted in fear. Tom’s was tense with excitement. His charm cut the robes as well as the skin at the crook of the boy’s elbow. He brought out a glass vial and caught some of the blood. 

“Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken,” he said, the thrill in his voice making it rise higher than usual. The blood dripped into the cauldron. “You will resurrect your foe!”

The potion was white now, almost blinding, but Tom could not take his eyes off it. His heart was thundering, his breath coming fast, his hands clenched by his sides. He was vaguely aware of Potter struggling again, and of Wormtail moaning, but they barely existed. Only the cauldron and its contents mattered. Only what was happening – what was happening? He squinted against the glare.

Quite suddenly the sparks vanished and as his vision began to clear, gouts of white steam billowed upwards into the night. Yes – yes – this was right – it was working! – he had succeeded!

Yes! At last, through the clouds of steam, a shape became visible. A tall man, skeletally thin, rose to his full height. Tom’s vision was still blurred – he could only see a dark outline – but he reached to pick up the robes from the ground, stepped forward, and robed the figure reverently.

The mist began to clear and Tom, barely breathing, gazed into the face of the man he had become.

It was quite a different face from Tom’s own – from that of any other person who walked the earth. Nobody would ever mistake this face; nobody would ever forget it once they had seen it. This was the face of one who had seen things and done things that no other human being had. The eyes were scarlet, wide open, and staring directly into Tom’s.

He held out his hand. Lord Voldemort accepted it and stepped out of the cauldron, his eyes never leaving Tom’s. He stopped before Tom, their faces close. They were the same height. Lord Voldemort raised a hand. One of his long fingers brushed Tom’s jaw.

“I had almost forgotten,” he breathed, “how it felt to wear this face.”

Tom smiled. He lifted his own hand to run his thumb along Lord Voldemort’s cheekbone.

“I could never have imagined,” he said, so quietly that neither of the other occupants of the graveyard could have heard him, “That I would turn out – like this.”

They stood like that for long moments, bodies so close that they were almost touching, each wondering at the other. Tom, still gazing into Lord Voldemort’s eyes, was aware that he could feel his breath on his face –

“M – master?”

They looked round. Wormtail was huddled on the ground, staring up at them with a pitiful, tear-stained face, clutching his arm to him, still weeping deeply. Tom extended his wand once more.

“Avada Kedavra,” he said, and Wormtail crumpled. But the moment was broken. Tom stepped back and drew another wand from his robes. The revolting Wormtail had fetched it from the remains of the house at Godric’s Hollow while Tom brewed the revival potion. Lord Voldemort smiled and took it, turning it over in his hands, reacquainting himself with it.

Tom allowed him a minute, then made a gesture towards the boy tied to the headstone. Whimpers were coming from behind the gag and his eyes were almost starting from his head.

“We don’t need him any more, do we?”

Lord Voldemort seemed to consider, his fingers continuing to stroke his wand.

“I think not,” he said after a while, calmly. “His blood, his mother’s protection, now flows in my veins. There is nothing to stop me from killing him.”

And he did so.

In the green glow of his curse he turned back to Tom and they both smiled the same smile. Not troubling to clear up the remains of their activities, they turned, together, and walked from the graveyard. Their hands met as they walked through the gate and a moment later they had vanished with a small pop.


End file.
